


A Royal Visit

by intentandinvention



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: British Politics, Everyone would rather pretend politics was not a thing, F!Northern Ireland, Flower fairies, Fluff, Gen, Gentle British Grumpiness, Gratuitous Royalism, Look someone just wanted the smol being babysat by Arthur, Oh how cute and innocent we were then, Prompt Fill, UK Family Feels, Wales is tired and grumpy and just wants to watch the rugby, Written and therefore set in 2014, Ye gods there is a tag for bb George, brief mention of Canada / Ukraine, so here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10069460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentandinvention/pseuds/intentandinvention
Summary: Someone asked for England, the UK nations and Canada babysitting Prince George, so I did it because I cannot resist UK family feels / fluff / political angst, especially when they're doing their best to be nice for the smol.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't publish much Hetalia, but hey why not; this has been marinating in my drive since 2014, about time it got finished off and posted somewhere.
> 
> British nations are based on my own headcanons as an English person. Hope I've introduced them fairly well, but just in case anyone's confused -
> 
> Scotland - Alistair  
> Wales - David (Davey)  
> Ireland - Aoife (pronounced Ee-fah)

'… but he won't eat anything green, so you'll need to puree green vegetables with other things. He's got a couple of teeth coming through so he might be a bit fussy but we've included his teething ring so if you just put it in the fridge for a bit -'

'Please, ma'am,' England says gently, cutting her off, 'I've been looking after royal babies since the eleventh century, your husband included. You've included the usual procedural instructions so there's really no need to worry – go and enjoy your weekend.'

The duchess looks at her husband, who's leaning against the wall in England's hallway, watching the proceedings with a slight smile. 'I'm sorry, Arthur, you just look so young,' she says after a moment, smiling helplessly and holding out the third in line to the British throne.

England takes the baby and settles him on his left hip, checking the little face for any signs of concern, but George just twists around slightly, looking at the miniature orrery on the table beside him and reaching a pudgy hand towards it. England was introduced to George on the day he was born, and although the lad isn't at the point where he remembers much of anyone other than his parents, Arthur has always had a certain bond with babies of his royal lines.

Catherine looks relieved as William puts down the bag full of baby supplies, and England smiles at them. 'The prince will be fine, your highnesses. It was good to see you, however briefly.'

They take the hint and say their goodbyes to the baby before England sees them out, nodding at their driver as he closes his front door on the bright spring morning.

He looks down at the little boy squirming curiously on his hip, and chucks him under the chin gently with a curled finger. 'Well, Georgie my boy, here we are at last,' he murmurs, smiling. 'Took them long enough as well!'

He picks up the baby bag easily with his free hand and walks into his living room, checking on the way there to make sure that the parlour door is closed. George twists and turns on his hip, looking at all of the shiny things, and England sets him down on the broad sofa where he's laid out a few of America and Canada's old wooden blocks. Sweden's done him a favour and stripped what remained of the old lead paint off them, replacing it with a more human-friendly, suckable type. George obviously catches onto this straight away, and the first block is suddenly being mouthed in a dedicated and serious manner.

England ruffles what there is of the boy's fair hair and picks up his teacup from the side table, taking a sip and leaning back on the sofa. It'll be good to have the weekend with just him and George, continuing the tradition that started with Alfred the Great's boy and was last renewed with Harry. England has always tried to make sure that his direct royal family all grow up knowing him and understanding who he is, knowing that they can come to him if it's all too much. Even so, it's taken him _two months_ to secure a weekend babysitting young George. Bloody American-influenced red tape. With William he'd usually just turn up and dismiss the nanny then spend a glorious afternoon building block castles and pillow forts, but there are all these terrorism checks now. England's sworn he'll go full-on Captain Kirkland on the next SO14 bloke who asks him about his clearance level, so he's carefully avoiding them.

A blue block hits his thigh, and he looks down at the prince, one eyebrow raised. 'Artillery bombardment, is it, your highness?' he asks.

George giggles, bringing his hands together with a block in each and grinning widely at the sound it makes. Leaning over, England stacks up some bricks on the uneven sofa so that they make a rudimentary wall. 'There! Can't get me now!' he says.

Still giggling, the little prince waves a chubby hand and demolishes the flimsy wall, bouncing on the sofa in glee. England lets his jaw fall in mock horror, his eyes wide. 'My wall!' he gasps. He puts his tea carefully on the side table and lies on the sofa on his stomach so that he's at the same level as the baby, propping himself up with his arms as he rebuilds the 'wall'. His legs don't quite fit so he has his feet in the air, and he waves them to distract George, who continues to gurgle in delight.

When the wall stretches the width of the sofa, George finally notices it, and with a quiet and happy satisfaction he demolishes it, throwing some of the blocks onto England's back. He has good co-ordination for his age, England notes proudly. And is quite heavy when he climbs onto England's shoulder to retrieve the blocks, almost landing a solid kick on his nation's nose. England angles his shoulders slightly to make sure that the child is tipped towards the back of the sofa rather than the edge – the carpet is soft enough to break his fall but England isn't the type to take chances, especially not with a non-nation child.

George being nearly a toddler, however, the edge of the sofa is irresistable, and as he crawls with definite intention over England's back, England twists and rises at the same time, catching the boy under his arms as he stands and raising him in the air. 'Oh no you don't, my boy,' he growls, and George laughs, kicking his legs. England spins around, grinning as the boy waves his arms and gurgles happily.

'Well bless my soul, if he isn't the cutest liddle bundle of joy I ever did see!' comes a lilting voice from the doorway, and England turns to see Northern Ireland leaning against the frame, her mouth in an 'o' as she coos at the baby, her hands in the pockets of her baggy black combat trousers. Arthur feels a flush creep across his cheeks at being caught playing with the baby and lowers the boy to sit on his hip, ignoring George's bouncing for more.

'England or the baby?' says a musical voice behind Northern Ireland, and dark-haired Wales sticks his tongue out at England as he pushes past the redhead and approaches his brother and the prince. ' _Bore da_ , Georgie boy,' he says to the now-lowered baby, offering his hand in solemn greeting. George stares, wide-eyed, and reaches for Wales' glasses, but settles for the hand when Wales' face stays out of reach.

'What are you two doing here?' England asks, irritated. He knew he shouldn't have given Wales a copy of his door key. 'I told you I had this weekend blocked out.'

'All weekend for playing with the babby? You, Arthur Kirkland, are such a soft touch,' North says, grinning. 'Scotland's here too, he's just dropping off the shopping.' Wales gently disengages his hand from George's and throws himself into a deep armchair, leaning back as he watches.

'Shopping?' Arthur asks.

'You didn't think we'd let you cook for the poor wee babby now, did you?' she says. 'Anyway, we'll be staying for the weekend. Not one of us has had any time with the babby so we're nicking yours.'

Arthur scowls, and hefts George on his hip. North might only look about seventeen, but she's inherited a maternal streak a mile wide from Eire; he should have known this was going to happen. 'I didn't think you'd want it. The three of you are always going on about how you don't want my stupid English royalty pretending they own you. Especially bloody Alistair.'

'Now, now,' Wales murmurs, his eyes half-closed. 'No swearing in front of the babi. That's as may be but we've got as much a right to get to know the lad as you, cariad. Mattie'll be around a bit later too.'

England raises an impressive eyebrow, wondering how deep this rabbit hole goes. 'Matthew as well?'

'His plane gets into Heathrow in a couple of hours,' North says cheerfully. 'Jack and James were going to come but then they figured the babby's visiting them in a month or two anyway so they might as well save on the air fare.'

'Anyone else?' England asks icily. 'Did you actually invite the entire Commonwealth to my house on the weekend I'd specifically reserved to spend time with George?' For some reason this prompts George to laugh uproariously, and Arthur can't help but smile in response.

'There, the babby thinks it's a good idea,' North says mercilessly. 'We just invited those three, they've all been dying to meet the little lad. And they did coins and everything for him, it's only fair.' She pushes herself off the doorframe and advances on England. 'Can I hold him? You know we'll be so careful with him, Arthur, he's not just yours.'

'If you harm so much as a hair on his head I'll -'

'What do you take me for, Arthur Kirkland? He'll be as safe with me as he is with his own mam.'

North might have her issues, but he knows really that she'd never harm a baby, even one as important to him as George. So he hands the baby over and George squirms and twists – and then his attention is caught by her long, bright red hair and he grabs hold of the fishtail braid and tugs. 'Should've known he'd do that,' she mutters, and she gently disengages his hands as Arthur moves to sit down on the block-covered sofa. He watches as North lifts the baby so that he's looking into her bright green eyes, and says, ' _Dia dhuit_ , George. I'm Northern Ireland, but you can call me Aoife or North. When you start talking, that is.'

George reaches straight for her eyebrow piercing, and Aoife obviously decides that discretion is the better part of valour; she gives him a quick hug and sets him on the floor. He makes a break for the door on his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder to see whether someone's following him, and crawls straight into Scotland's Argyle socks.

'Well hello there, wee laddie!' Scotland says, bending and scooping the boy up. He's shaved decently since Arthur last saw him – the neatly trimmed ginger stubble suits him a lot better than the somewhat directionless beard he had before. Perhaps he's been spending more time at Holyrood. George gurgles happily as he's held at arm's length, and Scotland grins. 'Can you say “Scottish independence” for your uncle Alistair, bairn?'

Arthur scowls. 'For God's sake, Alistair, he's seven months old!'

Alistair winks and brings the boy back to his broad chest. 'They're never too young to start learning wrong from right, Arthur.'

'You know the rules, Scotland,' Wales says from his chair. 'We don't talk about devolution in Arthur's own house. It's only polite.'

'You're such a wet blanket, Davey boy,' Scotland retorts, but to Arthur's relief he doesn't continue. With the referendum this year it's something of a sensitive subject, especially when Arthur's prime minister is so adamant that he knows what's best for Scotland. Arthur himself doesn't want to lose Alistair, but then Alistair lives in his own house anyway and it's not as if he'd actually be going anywhere. And really, they're hardly a model for Happy Families.

George is wiggling in Scotland's arms, demanding to be let down again, and Alistair deposits him on the sofa next to the wooden blocks, which are immediately subjected to taste testing once more. North hangs over the back of it, standing on her tiptoes to grab for blocks and then stacking up towers which get knocked over as soon as George notices them; Scotland picks up blocks at the same rate that George throws them onto the floor; and Arthur sees that even though Wales is pretending to be asleep, his dark eyes are still open as he watches the little boy play with the nations.

They _can_ do a good impression of a family sometimes, and it's usually when the latest royal baby is born. Arthur leans back, picks up his tea and tests the temperature by taking a small sip. Not yet stone cold, at least. In a way it's good that the others are here – he'll have time to eat and shower, at least, without George screaming the place down in the cot that's served as a temporary bed for generations of royals.

George romps up and down the sofa, his attempts to climb up the arms foiled by Alistair, and as he comes back to Arthur, a familiar smell fills the air. Arthur grimaces and hooks a hand under the baby's stomach, holding him up to his nose and pulling a face.

'We were wondering when you'd be noticing,' Aoife says cheekily. 'Since he's yours and all, you'll want to change him.'

 _No swearing in front of the babi_ , Arthur reminds himself as he rises from the sofa, George squirming under his arm.

He's glad to find that it's impossible to forget how to change a nappy, even when it's one of these modern ones apparently designed with a sticker book in mind. George is in a good mood and doesn't mind having his nappy changed, and it's not long before Arthur brings him back to the other three and sets him down on Wales's lap.

Davey startles awake as George grabs onto his rugby shirt and attempts to climb up him, and Arthur realises a little late that the crossed sabres on the wall behind the chair probably look far too appealing to the child. Aoife is about to swoop down on them when Wales looks over his shoulder, then grabs George around his waist and pulls him down, bouncing the boy on his knees to stop his protests. 'You don't want to go playing with those until you're a bit older, Georgie,' Wales says gently. 'Your uncle Arthur will show you if you want to learn, he's a dab hand with fancy weaponry.'

'Aye, give him something poncy to wave an' he'll have everybody's guts for garters,' Scotland snorts. 'Give me a claymore over those bits of wire any day.'

Arthur picks up his teacup. 'I'm just as good with a broadsword as you are with those lumps of metal, Scotland – just because I don't feel the need to go around lifting brick outhouses with one hand doesn't mean I can't tan your hide if I need to. Anyone for tea?'

'Me!' Aoife says, and Davey raises a George-grabbed hand briefly.

'I'll help you with the cups,' Scotland says, standing.

 

When they come back in with tea, Aoife is holding the baby above her head and making faces at him. ' _Who's_ a gorgeous little anachronistic relic of an oppressive medieval society?' she coos. 'Who is? I think it's you, yes it is!' George laughs and wriggles, waving his arms and legs everywhere.

Davey has his head in his hands. Arthur sets down the tea tray and folds his arms. 'Really, Aoife?' he asks. 'You'll give the poor child a complex.'

'He'll already have plenty of complexes by the time he's old enough to understand what he is,' she snorts. 'If his granddaddy hasn't brought the whole thing down around his big ears already.'

England has heard many, many times exactly how she feels about his monarchy, so he just pours them all tea, leaving the milk, sugar and cups on the tray so that they can help themselves. 'No anti-monarchy sentiment in England's house, North,' Wales says in a singsong voice.

'Oh, hush your noise, you overgrown principality,' North snaps.

Wales's fingers tighten on the arm of his chair, his pale face turning red, and Scotland frowns. ‘You’re one to talk, lassie, and Davey didnae say anything we’ve not agreed a thousand times,’ he says bluntly.

North tucks George under her arm, fire in her eyes, and England has had enough; he slams the teapot down onto the tray, ready to yell, but Wales speaks first, his voice tight.

‘We all know the arguments, we've done all this before, now can we _please_ just have a nice weekend with the babi? And if anyone so much as mentions the EU I will personally give them a right kicking, understood?’

That’s when George lets out a wail, and suddenly everyone's attention is on the baby, any excuse taken to neither quit nor continue the fight.

North hugs him tight, bobbing him in her arms. 'Hush now, dearie, we didn't mean it,' she says gently. She's lying, really, but England isn't going to call her on it. 'You can't help who your family are, and neither can we.'

George scrunches up his face and continues to cry, drumming his feet on Aoife's thighs and squirming to get out of her grip. She jiggles him, looking upset herself as she tries to calm him down, and Arthur takes a quick look at the clock. Ah, yes. He takes a quick sip of his tea, fairly sure he's not going to be able to finish this cup before it gets cold, and stands up. Aoife cocks her head at him, obviously wondering if the fight isn’t over.

'He's probably hungry,' England explains. 'Catherine left some bottles in the fridge, I'll warm one up for him.'

'Think you can manage to not burn it?' Alistair enquires solicitously, and Arthur flips a finger at him as he leaves.

Once he's in the kitchen, though, he checks to make sure that none of them have followed him before he takes the bottle out of the fridge and scans the huge, old kitchen for his housemates. 'Oak? Alder? If you're around I could do with a favour.' There's a flicker of movement above one of the higher kitchen cupboards, and he looks up to see Alder peering over the edge, delicate features framed with curly brown hair.

'What d'ya want?' the fairy asks. Alder's one of the more _modern_ fae, with considerably less sibilance and dentistry than the ones Arthur grew up with, which have tended to withdraw to national parks and the larger National Trust properties since the advent of trains.

Arthur holds the bottle up. 'Could you warm this? Like you used to for William and Harry?'

'The little one's here?' Alder asks. His tree's not quite awake yet at this time of year, so he's not as observant as he usually is. England nods, and the fairy yawns, stretches and throws himself over the edge of the cupboard, breaking his dive to the kitchen flagstones by spreading green and brown dragonfly wings that flutter faster than Arthur can watch as they steady him. 'Put it on the counter,' the fairy orders, rubbing his eyes sleepily, and he follows it as Arthur does so, landing beside it and raising his tiny hands to touch the plastic bottle that's slightly taller than him.

There's a gentle hum to the air as the fairy reaches out to the trees growing outside the kitchen window, and Arthur feels him drawing on the sunlight falling on their new leaves. A few minutes of this won't cause the new buds any harm, and unlike the microwave that Scotland dumped on England's counter a decade or so ago, Alder actually understands the concept of warming something to a particular temperature.

A knock sounds on the open kitchen door, and England turns to see Wales, a thick eyebrow raised at the sight of the fairy leaning against the baby bottle.

'Don't you bloody start,' Arthur says.

Wales raises his hands in surrender and leaves. England tests the temperature of the milk on the skin of his wrist, and brings it into the living room. To his surprise, North and Scotland are in the hallway, getting their shoes and coats on (clumping Doc Martens and a Triumph jacket for North, walking shoes and a battered Barbour for Scotland), and Wales is walking George up and down the living room, bouncing the boy gently in his arms to try to calm him as George yells.

'Going to pick up Mattie,' North explains. 'Want Davey to come with us?'

Arthur's surprised by the kind gesture after she practically invaded his home, and nods. North yells for Wales, and Wales hands over the squalling baby with relief.

When they're gone, North slamming the door harder than was strictly necessary, Arthur shifts George to lie down in his arms and brings the bottle to the baby's mouth. George's face is scrunched up so hard that he turns away from it at first, but then at the next wail he seems to realise what it is, and latches on, bringing his hands up to hold it.

England smiles in the quiet hallway. 'There, see? Wasn't that much of an international crisis after all,' he says softly, and George makes gentle noises that might be agreement, his attention entirely on the bottle as he sucks at it.

It's an hour's drive to Heathrow, even the way that Scotland drives, which means that England has at least two hours with George. The house is quiet again except for the two of them, and the noises England's used to begin to creep back in – the ticking of the grandfather clock in the sitting room, the soft whirr of the orrery in the hall, the buzz on the edge of hearing that tells him that the wards on the house are still up.

He sinks into his favourite armchair and watches the pendulum of the clock swing back and forth. George is settled in the crook of his arm, and one of his hands comes up to grab England's shirt, fussing with it before he calms again. Arthur checks that there's still plenty of milk in the bottle and strokes George's soft hair, remembering all of the boys (and the few girls) he's held like this through the centuries. None of them have been any more special than any other child of his, but he's never had the luxury of staying in touch with any other English child as they grow up; no other family knows who he is. He wonders if George will be the last child he holds like this, if the anti-monarchists are right and his royal family will fall out of favour with Elizabeth's dying breath. In any case, the heir is a Charles, and no good has ever come of that name. He'll miss them, when they fade out and not a single one of his people knows who he is from cradle to grave.

George stirs, pushes the bottle out of his mouth with his tongue, and England takes hold of it and tilts it to let the last of the milk run into the teat, but George turns his head away from it. 'All done?' Arthur asks, trying again just in case. George is having none of it, so Arthur puts him on his shoulder and walks to the bureau in the corner, pulling a drawer open and retrieving a cloth from it that he puts beneath the prince just in case. The little boy yawns and puts his head down on Arthur's shoulder as his back is patted.

Arthur always used to sing William and Harry to sleep, and it's almost without thought that he does the same for George. He hasn't sung for a long time, perhaps twenty years, and (as it always does) it surprises him when his voice comes through deep and clear, a soft baritone. 'Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously...'

The song isn't half as old as Arthur is, but it's soft and soothing, and so many of his lullabies and nursery rhymes are about death and plague and war that he prefers the ones about something approaching love, sad as they often are. George shifts slightly on his shoulder, and his forehead nuzzles into Arthur's neck as he gives a soft little sigh. Arthur does a slow circuit of the room as he sings the baby to sleep, and wonders what the world will be like when the baby becomes an adult.

George is asleep before the end of the third verse, and Arthur carries him upstairs and lays him gently in the crib that was first carved for the boy who became Henry VI. There's a rocking chair placed by the crib, and Arthur fetches his embroidery things from the parlour and brings them up, telling himself that he can't be bothered to set up the baby monitor that Catherine insisted on packing in that silly bag of hers and that he won't hear George from downstairs. He extracts his needle from the cloth and holds the material up, remembering where he'd got to. Ah, yes. The pattern of yellow and brown trefoils is fairly complex, and he's not at all sure that the modern Brownies will appreciate the effort that's gone into it, but the gift will be anonymous anyway. A century is a long time in human terms, and he's impressed that they've lasted that long even if he isn't quite sure what they're trying to achieve with their new “uniforms”.

Anyway, England would rather think about what they're terming the “Big Brownie Birthday” than the other events of 1914.

The thread runs out sooner than he's expecting, and he frowns and tugs at it before turning the material over to discover that it knotted some time ago and he's just sewn straight over it all.

Arthur sighs and sets it down on an ancient toy chest, leaning back in the rocking chair and watching the baby sleep.

George looks so calm, and England can't help but feel a little jealous. He's managed to clear the paperwork for this weekend but there's a lot to get through, and with Ivan's apparent bullheaded determination to make the whole bloody world (or at least Katya, who's tired and justifiably paranoid following her revolution) become One With Russia, Arthur has to be on call anyway, so relaxing isn't really an option for him. Not that he's much use – Ivan's blunt lies are driving Alfred wild with fury, so Ludwig's been reduced to acting as a messenger between them so as not to start an Incident, and Yao's smugness makes Arthur want to punch him so diplomacy is fairly difficult, and it's not as if Ivan's ever listened to anything anyone else says anyway.

England sighs, and runs a hand through his messy hair, and watches George sleep. It's not long before his own eyelids begin to droop.

 

Arthur surfaces, groggily, from confusing dreams of little George whacking Russia's boss over the head with a stuffed koala. The actual George is beginning to stir in his crib, eyes half-open. Arthur's watch says the others aren't due back for another half hour, so he stays in the rocking chair until George starts to get restless.

He watches the boy stir as he wakes, tiny fists moving to closed eyes to rub the sleep away. 'Hello, George,' he says quietly, charmed as always by the way the child looks up when he hears his name. 'We should get up,' Arthur adds, aware that the others will arrive soon. He stands and scoops the baby out of the cot, smiling as George lays a warm head on his shoulder, still half-asleep.

Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes and Arthur steps out into a beam of sunlight in the hallway. He glances at the tall window to see bright blue sky, and for a moment he misses the rain. But then, it'll be nice outside, and perhaps some fresh air will wake George up a bit in preparation for the return of Aoife, Alistair, Davey and Matthew. Arthur shifts the thought that only a stiff drink could be adequate preparation for the four of them – at least Jack and James haven't come too, or god forbid Alfred, who judging by his press's enthusiasm is more in love with Arthur's royal family than Arthur himself.

'Let's get you some warmer clothes, then we'll go outside,' Arthur murmurs, half to himself and half to the baby. George's blue corduroy dungarees are lovely – Arthur very much approves of Catherine's decision to support his own designers – but the boy will need a jumper if he's going outside. Now, where has he put the spare clothes Diana gave him for the boys...?

There's a quiet “meep” behind him, and he turns to see Bunny with a soft navy jumper in her front paws. She's not keen on guests, tending to hide away when anyone but Arthur is in the house. 'Ah, wonderful,' he says, and on his shoulder the sleepy baby squirms, reaching out for the creature.

Bunny hovers closer, obviously just as curious as George, but Arthur takes a couple of steps back to put them out of each other's grasp. 'I wouldn't,' he warns his friend. 'Catherine tells me he's got a pretty strong grip – you'll never get your ear back if he grabs it.'

Bunny loops the loop a couple of times in response, and Arthur sighs. 'At least let me get the jumper on him first?' he asks, reaching out for it.

Arthur remembers sleepy children as being generally quite easy to dress, but either his memories are mistaken or George is one of the most wriggly children he's ever looked after. Excluding Alfred, anyway, who was almost impossible to handle given that he'd been considerably stronger than Arthur even when he was only two feet tall. 'Come on, George – get this on and we can go outside,' Arthur coaxes. George only continues wriggling and reaching out for Bunny, and really, Arthur's going to need more than one hand.

Throwing a dark look at Bunny as he picks up the boy's shoes, he carries George into the living room and sits on the sofa with the baby in his lap. Bunny follows, and Arthur turns the boy to face her and carefully but firmly puts the jumper and shoes on him. When he's done, he looks up at Bunny. 'Do you really think this is a good idea?' he asks.

Bunny responds by flying straight at George's hand, and is promptly grabbed by the ear. She lands light as thistledown on George's shoulder, and he gurgles happily and puts the soft green ear in his mouth.

Bunny purrs and her wings fold back, around George's head. Arthur looks at the verdantly wrapped child on his lap and sighs. 'See?' he says. 'You, my friend, had better not have rabies.'

The noise that Bunny makes in response is apparently hilarious to George, even around a mouthful of satiny fur. Resigning himself, Arthur stands and replaces George on his shoulder, which gives him a furry green scarf with toenails that snag on his sweater vest as Bunny wiggles briefly before settling. Arthur won't admit to himself that he's smiling as he retrieves his coat from its hook and goes to the back door, slips on his shoes. It's good to be around children – Aoife, Davey and Alistair can see his friends too, but they're so _sensible_ about it. George is delighted by them just like Arthur himself.

Outside, the sun is streaming down from a clear blue sky, and the wind's barely stirring. George murmurs happily around Bunny's ear, and Bunny flaps her wings gently, tickling Arthur's chin. Arthur walks slowly around the garden, checking on the nodding daffodils and the crocuses that have just come out. The grass is a little longer than it should be – he's been so busy that he hasn't had a chance to cut it, and whilst he does have a gardener he really prefers to do it himself. George is pointing at the fairies hovering in the trees and bushes, Bunny forgotten as he strains to reach the tiny forms. He's apparently more than awake now; he kicks his feet against Arthur's thigh, demanding to be let down.

'Not sure you should be crawling around on the grass,' Arthur says, and he lets the boy down but holds onto his hands so that he's standing, wobbly and top-heavy with Bunny still perching on his shoulders, but George knows exactly what to do. He lurches forward and trusts to Arthur to keep him balanced, as many future (and, indeed, reigning) monarchs have done before him, and Arthur does as is expected of him, as he has done since Alfred the Great knelt and swore to him.

The fairies are something of a dilemma; they hover around George, curious and interested, and George lunges happily for them, leaving Arthur to contort so that the boy doesn't fall over as the fairies scatter, their tinkling laughter golden as the sunlight. After a couple of near-misses, Bunny loses her nerve and takes to the air, and George lumbers after her enthusiastically, Arthur carefully keeping his grip on the tiny hands.

He had sort of been hoping, before Catherine and William broke the news, that the new baby would be a girl. Elizabeth had been delightful as an enthusiastic and intelligent ten year old, but before that he'd barely spent any time with her, and the last female heir he'd raised from birth had been Mary in 1662. He somewhat missed the female heirs' mixture of calmness and rebellion, realising that even though they were women they would one day speak for a country. Of course it's different now; it's no longer terribly embarrassing introducing his prime ministers to Belgium, for example, now that they don't openly dismiss her out of hand because she occasionally wears skirts. Meetings with Poland are still sometimes fairly awkward; he swears the flaboyant nation wears sparkly hair clips to world summits just because it makes the Conservative ministers say stupid things and Feliks enjoys Arthur's grovelling afterwards.

But anyway. He would have liked a girl, but George is George, and Arthur realises that the boy is steering determinedly towards a rosebush and swings him up and out of the way, laughing with him.

There's a loud bang from the front of the house and the fairies buzz, scatter and race for the door, curious to see what's happening. George wails indignantly, twisting to glare up at Arthur, and Arthur tries to suppress his amusement at the boy's pouting as he checks his watch. That time already? He can hear clattering and raised voices in the hallway that leads through the house from front door to back, and pulls George up and back onto his hip, stretching his aching back. Bunny has disappeared somewhere, as she often does. 'I'm in the garden,' he shouts, and George looks up in surprise, eyes comically wide. Arthur widens his own eyes. 'You get to meet Uncle Matthew now, and Kumajiro,' he says. 'They've come all the way from Canada just to say hello – you'd better behave!'

George giggles as Aoife comes out into the garden, her hair coppery and gorgeous in the sunlight, and she giggles as well, delighted by his gummy grin. 'Well, if it ain't his gorgeous highness Georgie boy!' she says.

Matthew's a few steps behind her, and Arthur raises his eyebrows at the other nation's suit trousers and shirt, the latter of which is currently being mouthed by Kumajiro, in Matthew's arms as always. 'Visiting someone important, Matthew?' Arthur asks, smiling. Aoife murmurs something about getting her room sorted and disappears into the house.

Matthew sticks his tongue out at his former mentor and pushes a lock of unruly hair out of his face. 'I was at a Cabinet meeting until an hour before the flight left,' he replies. 'They never stop, politicians - I've even got homework, a couple of things for old Lizzie to sign. And speaking of royalty, look at him, he's practically a toddler!'

George meets the violet eyes curiously – he's definitely not afraid of strangers – and Matthew comes closer, kneeling down to deposit a grumbling Kumajiro on the grass before he stands and presents a hand to his new prince. George reaches out gravely to rest his hand on Matthew's, and Arthur wonders if he feels the pull of a parent nation, and resolves to ask William later. Technically members of his royal family belong to Matthew (and Jack, and James, and all of the others) almost as much as they belong to him, but he's never actually thought to ask if they can feel the other nations.

'It's good to meet you, your Royal Highness,' Matthew says solemnly, and George shifts on Arthur's hip, then suddenly twists and lunges with his whole body, reaching out behind Arthur with a loud giggle. Arthur has to adjust his grip quickly to stop the boy falling, and Matthew steps back quickly to let him turn.

The dark-haired fairy hovering just out of George's reach grins up at Arthur, and he shoos her away, frowning. 'Now is not the time for playing with the prince, Cornflower,' he says, aware that Matthew's got that blank, slightly bemused look that the non-magical nations get whenever Arthur's talking to his magical colleagues. Cornflower sticks her tongue out at him as she swoops away, and Arthur and George turn back to Matthew.

Before Matthew can say anything else, there's a heavy nudge at Arthur's legs, and he looks down to see Kumajiro rearing up on his hind legs, the black tip of his nose just reaching George's dangling shoe. George looks down and immediately kicks to be let go, and Arthur shares a quick look with Matthew before obliging, letting the boy sit down on the grass in front of the small polar bear. Kumajiro butts his head forward curiously, and George falls backwards in a burst of giggles, rolling to get himself up only to be pushed back down by the polar bear.

'Be nice, Kuma,' Matthew says softly. In answer, Kuma pads up beside George's head and nuzzles the boy, wincing as George's fingers curl tightly in his fur.

Arthur decides they're safe to leave to their own devices (not that he was really unsure, given that Kumajiro's played teddy bear to more than six generations of George's family) and turns his attention to Matthew properly. 'It's good to see you, lad,' he says warmly, and they share a quick hug. Matthew's by far his favourite nation: he's not excessively demonstrative like Francis and Feliciano, he's not loud like Alfred and Jack, and he's got the Nordic level head and sense of fairness that Arthur will never admit he admires in Alistair, Lukas, Emil and Berwald. Not that Alistair's a Nordic, definitely not. No chance. The red hair is a dead giveaway. 'How have you been?' he asks.

Matthew shrugs. 'Not too bad. Quebec's eased up a bit – don't know if you heard about the election, but the new party's not quite so “blame Canada”. And I finally got it through that moron Ford's head that I don't want him anywhere near any kind of office until he's clean. A pity Ivan isn't as good at listening.'

Arthur grimaces. 'Yes, well, Ivan's never really listened to any of us – I wouldn't take it personally.'

Matthew shakes his head, and steps back to avoid toddler and polar bear as they roll nearly onto his feet. 'You know me, Arthur, it's nothing I'm not used to, but Katya's miserable; she still thinks of Ivan as her cute little brother who needs protecting from mean Gilbert and scary Berwald. I went to stay with her when everything kicked off to make sure she was safe, and she spent most of the week in tears because Ivan and Natalia wouldn't talk to her.'

It would be mean, if accurate, to point out that Katya's usually crying about something, as she _is_ actually being invaded and Matthew obviously cares about her, so Arthur doesn't. Instead he sends up a quick, silent prayer of thanks to anything listening for his island status (no successful invasions for 948 years, and fingers crossed he'll make it to a round millennium!) and pats Matthew gently on the shoulder. 'I'm sure Ivan will back down once he's made his point, lad. He's just throwing his weight around a bit, it's what he does.'

The noise Matthew makes isn't quite disbelieving, but the awkward silence afterwards has them both looking at their feet. George is lying partway between the two of them, stretched out on the grass nose to nose with Kumajiro, patting the polar bear's paws with alternate hands. There are grass stains all over those lovely blue dungarees, and despite Kumajiro's obvious care not to hurt George, the bear's claws have nicked a couple of threads in the boy's jumper. Arthur will have to repair those tonight before they turn into actual holes, and probably do something magical to get rid of the stains in the dungarees.

It's nice to be able to think of normal things like that, things he might think of if he started a family. He kneels down for a moment to disengage Kumajiro's claws from George's dungarees, and reminds himself that he does have a family and he's damn lucky to still have one, let alone such an enormous one that still talks to him despite all of the horrendous things he's done to them. In almost the same thought (because it's not something that you can just _forget_ , and his Commonwealth family are a constant reminder), he remembers the feeling of Empire, of seeing through so many eyes and listening to so many voices, of neverending sunlight, jungles and deserts and mountains jostling for place in his head and all overwhelmed by village greens and grey skies.

George reaches up to grasp his hand, and it's all pushed away. Here, now, he is Arthur Kirkland; he will be England tonight, after George has been fussed over and hugged and loved by his oddly assorted not-quite-family and then lulled to sleep by Alistair softly humming the Skye Boat Song (which Alistair will deny, as he always does). Once the boy is in bed, the nations will will stay awake through the night, telling stories of their shared histories, their mad kings and strong queens whose blood has all come down to this one small fair-headed child, and by the end of the weekend George will know them all, and he will never forget them.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Bore da (Welsh) - Good morning  
> cariad (Welsh) - darling, love - general term of endearment  
> Dia dhuit (Irish) - Good morning  
> Bairn (Scots) / babi (Welsh) - baby, child
> 
>  
> 
> Other, really rather excessive, notes:  
> SO14 is the branch of the Metropolitan Police who are tasked with taking care of the royal family.
> 
> Scottish independence refers to the referendum held in 2014, after this fic was written, in which the Scots were asked if they wanted to leave the UK. Sadly for Scotland (the rest of the country breathed a sigh of relief) they said no. At the time the EU referendum was only a twinkle in UKIP's eye....
> 
> There's some confusion about what the components of the UK actually are, even within official Government press. Scotland is almost always referred to as a country, but Wales is sometimes a principality and sometimes a country (sometimes even a "region") and there actually isn't even an official designation for wtf Northern Ireland is. So I've played around with that a bit - no offence meant to any locals!
> 
> Anyone familiar with Cicely Mary Barker's flower fairies books, which are some of the most English things ever created, may recognise Alder.... I know England's canon fairies are a bit sparklier, but that much sparkle simply isn't English ;).
> 
> Heathrow is the UK's largest airport.
> 
> A widely-held speculation is that when Elizabeth II dies, much of the Commonwealth will withdraw from the monarchy (if the current heir, Charles, actually manages to ascend the throne).
> 
> 'Alas, my love...' is the first line of Greensleeves, a love song from Elizabethan England which is still very popular - most Anglophiles/English people will recognise the tune.
> 
> Brownies are a junior girls' division of the Scouts/Girl Guides, founded in 1914. Their uniform in the 90s was a yellow sweatshirt and brown kilt and their emblem was a very no-nonsense brown trefoil; the uniform has since changed to include hoodies, leggings and softer colours in order to appeal to children, whilst the emblem is now reminiscent of a children's television show. Not that I have Views.
> 
> So, uh, I don't generally ship Canada/Ukraine, but apparently the Canadian government does – when the whole Russian part of the Ukraine crisis kicked off, Canada was the only country to throw its support fully behind Ukraine, to the point of directly denouncing Russia for terrorism, chucking Russian soldiers out of Canada, and flying Ukraine's flag above government buildings. D'aww. (And guess what? Nobody paid much attention.)
> 
> Children can see fairies. That's like RL canon. Fight me.


End file.
